


Like She Owns Him

by trophic



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Body Hair Removal, Butt Plugs, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingerfucking, Kink Meme, Obedience, Sexual Slavery, Stargate Atlantis Kink Meme, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-17
Updated: 2010-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trophic/pseuds/trophic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to negotiate with an alien society, Sam needs to bring along a sex slave in a harness. John volunteers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like She Owns Him

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Stargate Atlantis Kink Meme. Slightly edited and revised.
> 
> Takes place during a Season Four-ish AU where Sam Carter is in charge of Atlantis and unattached. And if TPTB can handwave pesky fraternization rules, then so can I.

"John," Sam says. "I can't ask you to do this."

"You didn't ask," John says tightly. They're just outside the gateroom. It's a little late for second thoughts. "I volunteered. Now can we get moving?"

But Sam is shaking her head. "I'm just not sure you understand the extent of what they're going to require. I tried to get them to accept a harness of our own manufacture, but they're insisting that won't work."

"I can handle it," John growls. "It's for _Rodney."_

John can see the stargate through the door ahead, but Sam's preoccupied with the dog collar in her hands, turning it over and over. "I know," she says. "I also know you would do just about anything for him. Believe me, I get that. But once we're in there, there's going to be no backing out." She pauses, biting her lip. "You're not going to have a safeword, John. Do you understand what that means?"

"It's his _life,"_ John says incredulously. "And I damn well know what I'm getting into."

"I guarantee it's going to be humiliating," Sam says, meeting his eyes levelly. "It could be a lot worse than that. I'm going to need to know what I can and can't do to you, any triggers or no-fly zones, general or specific."

"You can do anything," John says, and he means it. There's no way he's going to leave Rodney in a slavers' den, just like there's no way he would ask anyone under his command to take his place. And the issues for him are probably...different...than they would be for anyone else. Not that they're any less real. "Don't worry, I'm not going to blame you for what you do in there. Just so we all get out alive." 

"We could have some sort of signal," Sam suggests. "Something nonverbal they wouldn't recognize."

"No," John says. "They're going to be looking for that. It's safer without one."

"Right," she says, finally conceding with a quick, tight smile. "All or nothing it is."

"Damn straight," John says, and Sam buckles the collar around his neck before they head for the gate.

\--

The slaver city is underground, deep and apparently shielded. Otherwise they'd just beam Rodney out and be done. They're met by a pair of guards at the entrance, which is hidden in a thick grove of trees.

"We have made arrangements to speak to your plutocrat," Sam says, and she manages to put an authoritative twist on it that almost sounds haughty. She looks good in her black leather jacket, black pants, black boots. She looks like someone to be reckoned with.

John does his best to look meek, standing two steps behind her, the leash slack between them. The collar's not doing anything for him, and he's grateful for that. But then, Nancy never used a collar on him. She had other preferences.

"You can't go like that," one of the guards sneers. "He's not properly harnessed."

"I understand your people can supply a harness," Sam says evenly, and John steels himself not to look up.

"Of course," the guard says, and John's imagining the tone of snide amusement in his voice. At least, he hopes he is. "Folllow me."

There are staircases down, first straight, then spiral. There are branching corridors and then more stairs, enough that John is thoroughly lost by the time they reach a wide, open atrium. It's brightly lit from above, and John thinks Rodney would probably be fascinated by their power source. If he were in a position to be curious, which John's still desperately hoping he is.

"This slave," the guard informs a woman behind what looks like a reception desk, "needs a proper harness."

"Of course," she says, and gives John a thorough once over. "That can be arranged." And she snaps her fingers for another woman, who bends her head and then scurries off. "It will be a few minutes."

There are other people in the atrium. John keeps his head down, but he can't help glancing around surreptitiously. There are more guards in the same uniform as the ones who met them at the surface, armed with clubs and occasional Wraith stunners. There are plenty of people dressed like the receptionist, in plain gray tunics. And then he sees a tall woman in a flowing gown with a patrician air, marching along with a man in tow, and John realizes with a jerk that he's looking at a slave. 

The man is nearly naked except for a complicated leather harness with straps run from his shoulders to his crotch and up between his bare buttocks. He's being led by a leash, and it's only when he turns that John realizes it isn't fastened to the harness, but rather to a pair of rings set in his pierced nipples. His head is down, his face expressionless, even when his owner tugs the leash, pulling on his nipples in a way that has to be painful.

John's face is hot when he turns away. He doesn't dare catch Sam's eye. And then the receptionist's assistant is back. 

"Please," she says. "Follow me."

She takes them to a small room and hands Sam a box that makes a suspicious jangling noise.

"Thank you," Sam says, but the woman doesn't leave. "I'm sorry," Sam adds, "but could I have a little privacy?" She uses "I" rather than "we," John notes with approval. She's definitely on her game.

The woman's hands are straight at her sides. "I am to stay and answer any questions."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Sam says, but the woman shakes her head.

"I am to stay," she says.

Sam frowns, but she's smart and doesn't argue any further. She opens the box and lifts out a set of black leather straps. John can't quite figure how they're supposed to go. There are numerous metal rings and buckles, some large, some small. Sam traces the lines of them with her finger, like she's figuring it out.

John doesn't dare attempt to peer into the box himself. He only hopes there's no piercing equipment in there.

"Take off your clothes, John," Sam says, and to her credit, her voice is steady and authoritative. John suppresses any kind of reaction and does what she says, stripping efficiently. It isn't like he didn't know what he was getting into, and this is for Rodney. He just has to keep telling himself that.

"Very good," Sam says when he's finished, and there's enough of her usual warmth in her voice to make him feel a little better. It helps that she's keeping her eyes on his face, not straying lower for even a moment.

"He's awfully hairy," the observer says, not giving him any such respect, and Sam's head jerks around. The woman looks bored, like she's assessing a head of livestock. "We can take care of that for you."

John's face goes hot and it's all he can do to drop his head. It's nothing he ever did with Nancy. Nothing he ever wanted to do.

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary," Sam says airily. "I like him the way he is."

The woman's voice is still flat. "Is he unpierced? You should at least take care of that."

John can see Sam's jaw set. "That won't be necessary, either," she says clearly.

The woman frowns. "He will look foreign. Not like a proper slave."

"Where I come from," Sam says, "we like them like this."

The woman's eyebrows lift. "But you are here, now. Asking for an audience with the plutocrat."

Sam's face is still tight, and John knows exactly what she's thinking. He tries to catch her eye, to show her that he knew the risks, to tell her that even a god-damned piercing will heal, but she doesn't look at him.

"Will it be permanent?" Sam asks. "The hair removal, I mean?"

The woman frowns. "I'm afraid not. He will need retreatment when it grows back."

"Okay," Sam says, and her eyes do meet John's, full of mute apology. "You can do the body hair. But nothing more."

John doesn't dare nod, just lowers his head slowly. He hopes she understands.

"If that's really all you want," the woman says, and steps forward. She lifts a long wand-like instrument off a nearby shelf and presses a switch on the handle, making it hum. Sam eyes it warily but lets her approach, stepping out of the way.

"Turn around," the woman says, so John obeys, turning his back to her. He wonders how it works and if he'll feel it. And then the wand touches him.

At first it's just like a thousand tiny pin pricks, but then, he's never had much back hair. She sweeps it down from his shoulders to his buttocks, and it's not bad at all, but he doesn't dare hope it will all be like that. She moves on to his arms and legs, and it hurts more, but not so much he can't stand it. When she pulls the wand away, the skin is pink and hairless as if it's been waxed.

"Raise your arm," the woman says flatly, and John does, trying to brace himself. But when the wand touches his underarm, it hurts like hell and he can't help flinching away.

"John," Sam says sternly, but her eyes are full of sympathy. In a few excruciating minutes, his underarm is bare and the wand is moving on to his chest, which hurts in a completely different way. John wishes he had a bullet to bite, but all he has is Sam's gaze, locked on his, and her face, twitching minutely with every sweep of the wand. It's like she's so in tune with him she can almost feel it herself, and that doesn't help at all, except somehow it does.

He survives the other underarm. He survives his stomach, and fuck, his pubes. He almost loses it when she goes around the base of his cock and over his balls, but Sam reaches out and grabs his arm, squeezing tight enough to hurt, and that centers him a little.

"I need you on the table," the woman says calmly, and if they had gum on this planet she'd probably be chewing it. 

"Do it, John," Sam says, but he's already scrambling up and lying back, letting his hairless knees fall open as the woman moves her wand in again.

He knows what's coming, but he has to close his eyes. Sam's still there, still holding his arm, and he concentrates on that, as hard as he can. The wand moves underneath his balls and then between his legs and into the crack of his ass and Jesus fuck, that hurts.

"There you go," the woman says, stepping back, and John draws a shaky breath. "Doesn't he look nicer like this?"

John doesn't want to look down at his reddened, hairless skin. He doesn't want to think what his ass looks like. At least there's no mirror, here.

Sam's projecting vehement nonchalance. "I told you, I liked him fine before," she says.

The woman sniffs. "Are you sure you don't want me to pierce him? I could just do the nipples."

"Not this time," Sam says, and John closes his eyes in gratitude. When he opens them, it's to a clanking noise that tells him she's picked up the harness again. 

"Now, let me see if I've got this right," Sam says, holding it up.

The first strap goes around John's body and buckles just above his hipbones, tight enough that it's not coming off anytime soon but not painful. John can feel a second strap hanging down behind him, and he jerks his legs wider when Sam places a hand on his too-bare thigh.

"Sorry," she mouths, her back to their observer, and reaches between his legs for the strap, pulling it through. There's something strange about the way it fits him, something cold and wide between his ass cheeks. John can't help reaching down to feel it. The leather is divided by a metal ring, a big one, right over his asshole.

He swallows hard, willing himself not to think about what that's for.

Sam's eyes offer another apology, and John braces himself just in time as she touches his balls, pulling them through another ring in the straps. It's a bit of a squeeze but she gets them in place without hurting him, and then she's pulling his dick through a hole in the leather. She's as impersonal as anyone could be, holding him lightly between her thumb and forefinger, but it's still too much. John's never been into pain itself, but this, the other side of pain, is far more dangerous, and the scent and feel of the leather isn't helping. He tries to fight it, but he can feel his dick growing in her hand.

"That's good," she says, nodding encouragingly. "I need you to, y'know, in order to get the straps right."

It takes him a moment, but then he sees the additional buckles and figures it out. She needs him hard, so she can put some more straps on him, and she's asking him to do it. It would almost be easier if she took care of it for him, but he can't ask that of her, so he reaches down and jerks himself a couple of times, carefully not looking up. It takes less work than it should and then he's hard and Sam is guiding his dick into the waiting buckles gently, almost reverently.

She knows what this is taking. He has a feeling it's taking a lot out of her, too.

When she's done, his dick is strapped against a broad piece of leather which Sam then buckles to the waist strap so that he's pointing straight up, pressing against the narrow bands of leather. There's one right below the head of his cock and it rubs as he moves, impossible to ignore, stimulating and uncomfortable at the same time.

Sam gives him a little time to get used to it, turning and rooting in the box. She pulls out a small jar, which she opens and inspects with a frown. He doesn't want to ask what's in it, but she closes and pockets it, then reaches into the box again and pulls out a pair of black gloves. They're long and slender and studded with metal along the backs of the fingers.

"Those are for you," the woman says pointedly, but Sam doesn't even lift an eyebrow.

"Of course," she says, and takes off her jacket before pulling them on. They fit her tightly, covering her arms to the elbows, a line of smooth studs on each finger, converging at the back of her hand and running the length of the gauntlet. They make Sam look dangerous, and John can't help thinking that's truth in advertising, even if the slavers won't get it. But their blindness is their own problem, and if he and Sam are lucky, they won't ever have to know differently.

Sam picks up the end of the leash with one gloved hand and turns to their observer. But the woman shakes her head.

"Not there," she says, and comes over to unfasten the leash from John's collar. It's all John can do to keep from saying something, or grabbing her. "Here," she says, and reaches down toward the harness.

But Sam's gloved hand stops her, tight around her wrist. "That's my job," she says, and then she clips the leash to a ring on one of the straps that's holding John's dick.

John twitches, feeling the blood hot in his face, and the woman gives him an assessing look. But Sam takes hold of the other end of the leash and gives her a quelling stare. "We're ready to go," she says firmly, and the woman nods.

"Please. Follow me."

There are more staircases and more hallways. John follows Sam closely, feeling the metal ring against his ass. He feels spread wide open. He wonders what he looks like from behind, if his now-hairless asshole is on display for all and sundry. He's glad there isn't a mirror. He really doesn't want to know what he looks like. 

They pass several more patricians with slaves in tow, men and women. One of them is, like the man in the atrium, leashed via a piercing. John's more than a little grateful he doesn't have to deal with that. The air feels too cool, too pressing against his bare skin, but Sam chose right. The hair will grow back. 

Her shoulders are square in front of him and she doesn't glance back, but there's something in the determined force of her walk that's keeping him focused. The leash between them is a sham, but the bond is real. He trusts her. She's smart and she's good and she's going to find Rodney and get them out of here. He's sure of it. He has to be.

They end up in an opulent room with high ceilings and blue velvet curtains shot with silver. There's a circle of chairs at the center, and their guide gestures to Sam to sit down. John looks for a chair himself, but Sam tugs the leash sharply, chastising him. John swallows a self-directed curse and drops to his knees next to her, apologizing the only way he can.

He feels her gloved hand in his hair, ruffling it, accepting the apology or making a show. He has no idea which. And then a door opens and closes and six guards and a patrician with a slave in tow enter the room.

"Most honored plutocrat?" Sam asks, rising to her feet, and the man nods haughtily and seats himself in front of her. His slave cowers beside him, his leash attached not to his harness but to a ring pierced through the head of his dick.

Sam sits down again, and her hand finds John's hair once more.

"You have gone to a lot of trouble to see me," the plutocrat says, jerking his leash like an afterthought. The slave cringes, but John can see his dick getting harder like he can't help himself. John pushes against Sam's hand in his hair, ridiculously grateful that he has a choice, and she scratches his scalp lightly.

It's not real, he reminds himself. But for a moment, he imagines some part of it might be.

"You have something that belongs to me," Sam is saying.

"So you claim," the plutocrat says with narrowed eyes. He turns his gaze to John, who only then remembers to lower his head. "Forgive me if I say I don't believe you are capable of owning anything. You think you have fooled us, but this is a most obvious sham." He leans forward in his chair and kicks John's leg. "Or did you really think that all he needs is a harness and a leash?"

Sam's hand tightens in John's hair, pulling painfully, but he suppresses a wince. "Our ways are not yours," she says. "Where I come from, we do not damage another person's property."

The patrician gives her an assessing stare. "Give me reason to believe you."

"He is mine," Sam says. "He may not act as your slaves do, but I assure you, he is bound in obedience to my commands. He would do anything for me."

It's a clever bit of truth-twisting, but the plutocrat seems unimpressed. "Bah," he says. "He is certainly not showing much sign of devotion now."

Sam looks confused, and it takes John a moment, too, to realize what the plutocrat means. But somewhere between the stairs and this room, he's lost his erection, and his limp dick is hanging out below the straps that are supposed to confine it.

John's face heats and he wants to cover himself or jerk himself hard, but he's afraid if he makes any move it will be seen as disobedience. His head is down, so he feels rather than sees Sam figure it out. Her hand releases his hair and the leash pulls sharply. "John?"

"Sorry," he says softly, and he doesn't have to pretend to make it sincere. "I'm sorry, Mistress."

"He is occasionally distractible," Sam says, like she's mentioning a minor configuration flaw in a horse. "But I find him adequately capable of regaining focus whenever necessary."

That's an obvious cue, and John knows what he has to do, just as he knows he can't touch himself to do it. Sitting nearly naked in a too-cool room with the haughty plutocrat and his slave is hardly conducive to regaining an erection, but Sam is here, and John has to make do with what he has. He looks up at her, desperately hoping that's acceptable, and concentrates on the sympathetic tightness around her eyes, the ironic curve of her mouth, the long, tight, wicked looking gloves on her forearms. He imagines her cuffing his wrists. Strapping him to a rack. Demanding that he get hard for her. 

She holds his gaze steadily and it's enough; he feels his cock swell until it's stiff, poking straight out below the straps that formerly contained it.

"Enough," the plutocrat says, and John bows his head, staring at his erection and holding on to the image of Sam in his head. "You prove only that he is your lover, not that he is your property."

John's not expecting it, so he's utterly unbraced for the back of Sam's hand, hard against his ear. His teeth rattle and he wonders if the studs have drawn blood, but he just dips his head lower and concentrates on keeping his erection. It probably should be harder than it is, but all he can think of is Sam, and the fact that he's at her mercy. She could do anything to him right now. Anything at all. The thought is a knife edge between trust and danger, between fear and arousal. 

"He will," Sam is saying grimly, "do anything for me. That is no exaggeration."

"Show me," the plutocrat says, like that's a reasonable request.

Sam doesn't hesitate a moment. "John," she says. "Lick my boots."

There's no time to think, no time to work himself up for it. Sam's wearing high-heeled black leather instead of her usual combat boots -- she's dressed to impress, after all -- and John applies his tongue to her instep, working his way up. Her boots taste of polish and dust, but he can feel the warmth of her leg through the leather. It's more than enough. 

He makes it to the top of the first boot and starts on the second, hearing her approving murmur and his tongue traces the boot's seams. The sound goes straight to his cock, and he suddenly wants her to touch him again. 

Even if it means hitting him.

Her hand brushes his hair, and he shivers. "Into position, John," she says.

He has no idea what she means, but he can't ask, can't hesitate, can't let her down. He rises on his knees, turning away from her and bending forward. Then he lowers his head between his forearms, one cheek flat against the floor, and slides his knees apart, exposing himself to her. The metal ring has him wide open, and if this is all wrong he figures she'll just smack him.

But he doesn't feel the sting of her hand, and a moment later he hears a sound that could be the lid of the jar she pocketed earlier. Lubricant of some sort, he thinks. Hopes. And then her gloved finger touches him, firm and slippery as it presses inside.

She's not rough but she's not gentle either, and he can feel each stud as it pushes into him. He's glad he has his face against the cool, soothing floor, because he feels hot all over. She's taking him. Using him. Claiming him for her own, and he knows it's all an act, but it's still her damn finger inside him, curling against his prostate and making his cock jerk.

He doesn't have to worry about staying hard, not like this. When she pumps her finger inside him, sliding the studs in and out, he has to swallow a gasp. And then she presses a second finger in and he can only dig his fingers against the hard floor and hang on.

The room fades away. There's nothing but her fingers inside him, filling him, sparking sensation after sensation, and he only just manages to remember not to whimper or beg for more.

But even as he holds his tongue, he's still giving himself away. In some part of his mind, he knows that, but he can't fight it, can't do anything but welcome the invasion, giving himself over, trusting her to see him through, to see them both through. His body is hers, to do with however she pleases, and if she pleases to stick her whole hand in, he'll take it and be grateful.

"Who do you belong to, John?" Sam asks, pushing a third finger in, smooth and hard.

"You," he gasps, and feels his cock leap again. "Only you."

"And if I choose to discard you?" Sam asks.

"I'm yours," he chokes out, and it doesn't feel like a sham anymore, but simple truth, "to do with as you please."

Sam twists her fingers inside him: punishment or reward, he doesn't know which. The motion sends a burst of pleasure up his spine, and he's suddenly so close to coming that it's both. She hasn't given him permission and he doesn't dare ask for it, but if she keeps this up he's going to humiliate himself. In some part of his mind he remembers that he can't, that there's too much at stake, but it's hard to think with her fingers inside him.

"Slave," the plutarch's voice commands, but John doesn't even glance up. He's Sam's. He doesn't give a damn about anything else.

"I'm sorry," Sam says sweetly. "He's mine, and he answers only to me."

"Enough," the plutarch growls, and Sam gives John one more slow, deep rub before pulling her fingers out, one stud at a time.

John stays where he is, one cheek against the floor. He tries not to pant, but it's hard.

"Will you reward him?" he hears the plutarch ask.

"His reward is knowing he's pleased me," Sam says, and John feels his stomach quiver as that hits home. He misses her fingers, but the warmth in her voice is its own sort of pleasure, no less intense.

"Perhaps he would like something more," the plutarch suggests, and he gestures to one of the guards, who comes over with a small box in his hands and offers it to Sam. John doesn't turn around, so he doesn't see her accept it, but he hears it open.

"Ah," Sam says, and there's a note in her voice that John knows is meant for him alone. "Yes, I think he'll like this."

He feels her hand on his hip, and then something touches his ass. Not her finger; it's too big, too blunt. Some kind of object. A plug, he realizes as she pushes it in. He's pretty well stretched from her fingers, but it burns anyway, and then it's snug inside him and he can feel a snap as she attaches it to the ring.

"Think of it as a reminder," she says softly, and he understands. She put it there. He's hers. "Now stand up, John."

His legs are shaky under him, but he stands, turning to face her, his aching cock pointing straight at her like a thick, wanton finger.

"Let's get you put back together," she says, and her gentle fingers unbuckle the cock-straps and refasten them around his shaft. He shudders as she touches him, sensation rocketing through him, but he manages not to come. When she's finished with the last buckle, he sinks back to his knees beside her, unbidden. She can chastise him if she needs to. It just feels right.

"So," Sam says, and it's her public voice, not the soft one she's been using with John. "Where is my other slave?"

The plutarch laughs, short and sharp. "I will concede that you have this one well trained. But the one you speak of is useless. I have decided to set my best trainer to breaking him. Surely you will prefer to wait until then?"

Sam's hand finds John's hair again, and he realizes with a sudden shock of clarity that she's using the touch to ground herself. That she needs him just as much as he needs her. John shifts on his knees, pressing against her hand, and when the plug shifts inside him it's all he can do to keep from whimpering.

"My slaves answer to me and me alone," she says. "If he's disobedient, it means that he's with the wrong master."

The plutarch laughs again. "Prove it," he says, "and the slave is yours."

John's heart leaps in his chest, caught between hope and despair. It's a chance, probably the best chance they can hope for. But he can't imagine Rodney submitting to Sam, not without some kind of warning to put on an act, and it's not like they have some sort of prearranged secret signal for that.

"I'm ready right now," Sam says brightly, standing up.

"Then follow me," the plutarch says, and yanks his slave to his feet. John notices with a mixture of pity and vindication that the slave's erection has flagged, but it perks up again at the tug, and the plutarch doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy heading for a door on the far side of the room.

It's hard to walk with the plug inside. It shifts with every step, pressing against John's prostate, reminding him of Sam's fingers, of the fact that she put it him. It's not enough to make him come, but he's right on edge, and the rub of the leather straps against his cock is maddening.

They take an elevator down -- apparently the plutarch doesn't do stairs -- to a far less opulent area, with sterile white hallways and bright lighting. There are windows on either side of the corridor they enter, showing small, empty rooms that look like they could be inpatient rooms in a hospital if it weren't for the prominent rings bolted into the walls.

The plutarch stops halfway down the corridor and gestures to a room. Sam steps past him and John peers through the window to see Rodney. He's sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. His hair is a wild mess and he's sporting several days' growth of beard, but he's unchained and still dressed in his own clothes, and there's no sign of injury.

"Please," the plutarch says, his voice both disdainful and amused. "Prove to me that he is yours."

Sam's eyes narrow, and John knows her thoughts are racing. There has to be a way out of this, only he can't figure how she's going to hit Rodney with a clue bat before he gives the whole game away.

"John," Sam says, and she holds out her end of the leash to him. "Bring him to me."

He takes it, his heart banging in his chest, and meets her eyes. "As you wish," he says, choosing the words deliberately, but he doesn't wait for a flicker of recognition in her face before turning back to the window. Rodney's eyes are still closed. He has no idea they're here. But John suddenly realizes that Sam's plan is brilliant. If Rodney disobeys him, it won't be the same as disobeying her, and John will have a chance to clue him in before anything is obvious.

A guard unlocks the door, and Rodney jumps to his feet. "What the hell?" he says, and stares as John moves into the doorway. " _Sheppard?"_

John steps into the room, suddenly painfully aware of his physical state -- the harness, the erection, the missing body hair, the god-damned plug. "Get up, McKay," he says. "Our mistress is willing to take you back if you behave." He puts as much spin as he dares on the word "mistress," willing Rodney to get it.

But Rodney's still staring at him gape-jawed. "What are you...how...oh, God."

John reaches down and deliberately unclips the leash from his harness, then brings his hands up to unbuckle the collar he's still wearing. "I'm not kidding," he risks saying. "Piss her off and she'll leave you here."

"Right," Rodney says, his eyes wild. He makes an abortive gesture at the collar. "Um, is that for me?"

"I'm sure we can fit you for a proper harness if you want," John drawls.

"Ah, no," Rodney says. "No, I'm certain that won't be necessary. Just, you know, strap me up and I'm good to go."

He's entirely too talky for a slave, and John damn well knows it. He lifts the collar up and slides it around Rodney's neck, tugging it tight for a moment, his eyes hard on Rodney's. He feels Rodney swallow, sees some sort of comprehension in his eyes.

"You know what's funny?" John says as he does up the buckle. "People here think you don't know how to submit to a mistress."

Rodney lifts his chin to talk back and John jerks the collar, and that's when Rodney gets it. "How foolish of them," he says, and it almost sounds meek.

"Yeah, at least she knows better," John says, and clips the leash to the collar. 

Rodney swallows and nods, and John can't delay any longer. He turns and leads Rodney out into the corridor, feeling the plug shift with every step. Rodney can probably see it. Rodney's undoubtedly adding two and two and getting four in that marvelous brain of his. But Sam gives John a warm look, and he feels his embarrassment evaporate. She's proud of him, and that's really all that matters.

"Rodney," Sam says sharply, and Rodney's head jerks up. "I'm extremely disappointed in you."

It's the acid test, the moment that will make or break them. "I...I'm sorry. Really, really sorry," Rodney says, and it's almost abject enough. "I didn't, ah, forgive me? Mistress?" He tacks the honorific on like an afterthought and John suppresses a wince. The plutarch is watching them like a hawk, the amused lines still around his eyes like he's not buying this for a minute, and John doesn't dare meet Sam's eyes, but he doesn't need to in order to know she knows.

"Rodney," Sam says, her voice ringing with command. "Lick my boots."

Rodney's eyes snap wide, and John knows what he's going to say, the seriously? that wants out of his mouth. But somehow Rodney does it. He whimpers an "Oh, God," and drops to his knees in front of her, and his tongue comes out, swiping a trail where John's went before.

John watches, still holding the leash. He wonders if he should offer it to Sam, but he's still her slave, so it's her call. Everything is her call. Even if she trusts him to act on her behalf.

Especially because of that.

John doesn't have to look down to know he's still hard. It has nothing to do with Rodney's tongue working its way up the black leather encasing Sam's right calf. It has everything to do with her strength and her faith in him.

"Enough," Sam says, and Rodney rocks back on his heels. He looks wrecked, and John feels a stab of envy that he's not the one kneeling at her feet. "Put your face on the floor," Sam says, and Rodney does it without a moment's hesitation.

Sam lifts her foot and places her heel on collar at the back of Rodney's neck. John can tell she's pressing down by the way Rodney's cheek flattens against the tiles, but Rodney doesn't so much as whimper. "Next time," Sam says, her voice steel, "you will stay close to me. Do you understand, slave?"

"Yes," Rodney says, and then flinches when Sam grinds her heel down harder. "I promise," Rodney says. "I swear, I'll behave myself."

Sam lifts her foot, and Rodney stays where he is. John can see his back rise and fall, but to his credit, he's not making a sound.

"Astonishing," the plutarch says, and the laugh lines around his eyes have disappeared. "I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes."

"We'll be leaving now," Sam says haughtily. "John?"

John nods, not daring speak a word.

"Bring him for me," Sam says. "I don't want any more to do with him until he's earned my trust back."

"Yes, Mistress," John manages, and tugs on the leash.

Rodney scrambles to his feet, and John can tell he wants to rub his neck, but he manages to control that, too. Nothing like a little motivation.

"Captain," the plutarch says to one of the guards. "Escort these foreigners to the surface."

And just like that, it's over.

\--

There's a minor hitch on the way out. The receptionist claims John's clothes have been destroyed. But Sam stares her down until she produces a long robe, and Sam belts it around John's waist herself.

"Thank you, Mistress," he whispers, and she nods sharply and they keep going. The guard captain escorts them all the way to the gate, and Sam instructs Rodney to dial the Alpha site. 

John's still plugged and harnessed under the robe, but he wants to laugh at the way Rodney scrambles to obey, like he really thinks Sam's pissed at him. And then the wormhole engages and they go through and they're in the lush green meadow of the Alpha site.

"Oh, thank God," Rodney says, fingers working the buckle of his collar open. "This thing nearly choked me. I can't believe you put it on so tight."

"Nice to see you so appreciative, McKay," Sam says, stripping out of the gloves.

"Oh," Rodney says. "Thanks for the rescue. You made it just in time. That ridiculous excuse for a ruler was starting to make extremely unpleasant threats."

John's standing there watching them both, and he only realizes something's wrong when Sam turns to look at him. "Do you need some privacy?" she asks, and he swallows. If she tells him he has to take the harness off, he will. But all he can do is shake his head.

"Okay," Sam says, but her face is concerned.

"Let's go home," John says, and steps up to dial.

They head straight for the infirmary, and if anyone is surprised to see Lt. Colonel Sheppard out of uniform, they don't let on. Sam turns Rodney over to Doc Keller and escorts John personally to a private room. It's one of only two in the whole infirmary, but he's damn glad for it.

"You're okay, John," Sam says, and she cups his shoulder. "You're home."

John wants to lean against her hand, but the rules are different here. He has to remember that. "Yeah," he says. It comes out kind of rusty.

"We did it," Sam says, her eyes searching his face. "We got him out alive, and we got out ourselves."

John wets his lips. "Yeah," he says again. Her hand is still on him, warm enough to feel through the robe. It looks right, there on his shoulder. It looks strong. 

She squeezes gently and drops her hand to her side. "You need to get out of the harness."

He swallows and meets her eyes. "Shouldn't you be with McKay?" he asks.

But she shakes her head. "No. No, I really shouldn't."

"Okay," he says, accepting that as the warmth spreads from his chest outward.

"I'm just going to step out to give you some privacy," she says. "I'll be right outside the door."

"No!" he says, too sharply, but damn it, he can't do this alone. "Crap. I mean, I'd like you to stay. Please."

Her chin jerks up, like she wasn't expecting that, and he realizes he's given even more away. But want and need are so jumbled up inside him that the shame only makes him more desperate.

"You want me to help you with it?" she asks, and he nods in relief.

She unties the belt of his robe slowly, like she expects him to stop her, but by the time it falls off his shoulders, he's trembling. She crouches in front of him, a reversal of their previous positions, but there's no doubt she's still in charge. That he's still hers.

Her fingers are light on the buckles, but when they brush his skin, they feel electric. She starts at the base of his cock, moving up, and by the third buckle he's holding his breath, so taut he's going to explode. 

"It's okay," she says as she releases the last cock strap. "We're almost there." And he bites his lip and comes all over her hand.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he whispers. He's hot all over and he can't look at her face. "So fucking sorry, Sam."

"No," she says, and straightens, her hand still on his cock. "Damn it, no. There's nothing to be sorry for. You were incredible out there." She slides her other arm around his waist, still holding his cock as it twitches and lets out one last dribble. "Truly amazing, John. I'm humbled."

It's ridiculous for her to say that because it was all her, but he leans into her embrace as he comes down, not letting himself think. He knows she's not going to hold him like this for much longer, but he'll take whatever she'll give him.

"Sorry," she says after longer than he'd dared hope for. "I need to get you out of this thing."

"What you need is a tissue," he says, and reaches for a box so she can wipe her hand.

She gives him a smile and wipes his stomach, too. It feels strange against his too-bare skin, but he's not about to complain. And then her fingers are at his waist, deftly undoing buckles.

It's easy enough for her to slide his soft cock through the leather. His balls take a little more work, but she's as careful as if they were made of glass. And then the strap is hanging down between his legs. It tugs at the plug and John's sated cock spasms. He feels his face heat again, but she doesn't say a word, just puts a hand on his hip, guiding him to turn around.

"This may hurt," she says. "It's pretty big."

He's all too aware of that, just as he's too aware of her hands at his waist, undoing the last of the buckles. And then there's a tug and a flare of pain as she tries to ease the plug out.

After hours of suppressing everything, he can't stop himself from gasping.

"Damn," she says. "God, I'm sorry."

"Get it out of me," he says, and she does it, she pulls and swears and slides it out of him. He leans against the exam table and pants, and when the pain starts to ease he feels so empty that the loss of it -- the loss of the reminder of her inside him -- hurts more than the plug did.

"Oh, John," she says, and her arms are around him -- both of them, this time, one at his waist, one at his shoulder. He collapses against her like everything that's been holding him together is broken, burying his face in her neck. He can't believe she's giving him this. He can't believe she's the one who thinks he's amazing.

There's a polite knock on the door, and Sam lifts her head. "Sorry," she calls out. "We're not ready for you yet."

"Is the colonel all right?" a nurse's voice asks.

"He's fine," Sam says firmly, like saying it makes it true. "I'll let you know when he's ready to be examined."

"Understood," the nurse says, and John can hear her retreating footsteps. Sam's arm shifts on his waist and her other hand comes up to card through his hair.

"We should get you into some scrubs," she says. "I can't have you catching a chill."

"No," he says, not lifting his head from her neck. He doesn't feel cold, and he doesn't care that he's naked and she's fully dressed. "Not yet."

"Okay," she says. "Can we sit down?"

He concedes to that, and she settles on the exam table next to him, her arm still around him, his head on her shoulder. He has to twist and curl to hold the position, but he doesn't give a damn. She's there for him, and that's all that matters.

She doesn't talk, just strokes his back and his hair, her hand sometimes straying to his cheek or his shoulder, then back up. It's soothing, almost mesmerizing, and he wants to just sit like this forever, but he can feel the world coming back slowly, weights and responsibilities and shame. Yeah, a fair amount of that.

"Crap," he says finally, and rubs his face. The hand that was stroking him drops to her side, but the one around his waist stays right where it is.

"It's okay," Sam says. "You're okay, John."

He draws a long breath. "Really not sure about that."

"Damn," she says softly. "I was kind of hoping we could skip this part."

"Yeah," he says, "me, too." He lifts his head to look at her and sees nothing in her face but acceptance, and that helps more than he dares admit. "You, uh, saw a little more of me out there than you should have had to," he says.

"I know," she says, looking away. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," he says. "And anyway, we got what we went in there for."

"Yes," she says. "Yes, we did. And you should be damn proud of that."

"You too," he says, and she nods.

"I promise none of this will go in my mission report," she says. "You accompanied me on a rescue mission, end of story."

He nods, grateful that she's thinking about these things. His own brain hadn't gotten that far yet.

"And John," she says, and something in her tone makes him turn toward her, makes his heart pick up. "You should know that nothing I saw out there, nothing, would make me think any less of you. Pretty much the opposite, actually."

"Okay," he says, and there's a squishy, squirmy feeling in his gut.

"I mean it," Sam says, like she doesn't believe he believes her, and the next thing he knows, she's pressing her lips against his.

She's kissing him. For real. He's so stunned he almost forgets to kiss her back, but then his hands come up to frame her cheeks and his mouth opens and he melts against her, reveling in her indulgence, hoarding the sensations.

"Oh, God," she says, pulling back abruptly. "I really shouldn't have done that."

He's breathing heavily and half hard and he wants her to kiss him again so badly he can't see straight. "Why not?" he asks, even though he knows it's a stupid question.

"It's not fair to you," she replies readily, like she's already thought it through. "Not if I can't follow through with it. And I can't. There are so many reasons why it would be a terrible idea."

"There's only one that matters," he says quietly, and he doesn't know whether to hope or despair.

"John, I..." she starts, and then breaks off with a troubled glance.

"Say you don't want me," he says. "It'll be easier for both of us that way. Just say it out loud."

He watches her swallow, watches her eyes drop. "I can't." She looks up at him, and the pounding in his chest is breaking him to pieces. "I can't lie to you. Not after what we've been through."

He closes his eyes and breathes. She wants him. She won't let herself have him, but she wants him, and it's the most amazing thing he's ever heard.

"What you're feeling isn't real," she says quietly, and it's such an outrageous lie he can't even process it. "In extreme situations your emotions can get turned around because you're focusing on what you need to do to survive. It's a natural defense mechanism, kind of like Stockholm syndrome, sympathizing with someone who hurt you because they could have done worse."

"No," John says, and his voice sounds harsh even to him. "You're the one who has it backwards. You were on my side out there, remember? We were in it together. And I chose to be there. It's fucking unfair to think that choice didn't matter, or that I'm not capable of making my own choices now."

Her eyes are wide, like she wasn't expecting that, like she didn't know he's capable of fighting for what he wants. And maybe he doesn't want to be the one in control, but he isn't going to let her throw this away for some shit stupid reason. Not if she wants it, too.

"What do I have to do?" he asks. "What would it take to make you give me a chance?"

She looks over at him, and hope surges through him. "I need at least six weeks," she says. "So I know you've had a little time to recover and think it through."

"And if I still want it?" he says, challenging her.

"I can't promise," she says. "John, I...I don't know how I'll feel, either. But if you still want it six weeks from now, ask. I promise I'll listen."

It's not much, but it's a hell of a lot more than he was expecting. "Okay," he says. "I can live with that."

Sam slides off the table and opens a cabinet, then turns back to hand John a set of scrubs. "Bet you're ready for these about now."

He's not, not really, but he takes the hint and gets into them.

"I'll just go see if Jennifer's done with McKay," Sam says when he's dressed, brushing by him to go to the door, but John shoots out a hand and catches her arm.

"Wait," he says, because it's his last chance, the only time he's going to be able to get the words out. "I just wanted to say...thank you. For everything. Out there and in here. I trusted you and you were...exactly what I needed."

She nods, her eyes suddenly suspiciously bright, and he can't help himself. He bends to kiss her cheek. He means it to be a simple gesture of gratitude, not the thing she's denying him for six weeks, but she turns her head and captures his mouth with hers like she can't stop herself. He tilts his head and presses against her as her arms wrap around him, her fingers splaying across his back. Her lips are warm and mobile, and they're saying everything she's denying, everything he desperately wants her to say, like yes and me, too and only you, John.

It has to end, eventually. She has to pull back, flushed and guilty, her hair a little mussed and her eyes still bright.

"Don't worry," John says. "I won't hold that against you, six weeks from now."

"Thanks," she says, and she sounds a little breathless. "Wow, this is going to be harder than I thought."

"Good," John says with a smile, and then he's the one who takes three steps forward and opens the door.


End file.
